You’ve got to love Gwyneth Paltrow, haven’t you? She always comes up with the goods. It’s not enough for her to be content with getting engaged again. Although in the phraseology of the woman who called her previous divorce a “conscious uncoupling”, she’s not just getting engaged again. She’s “pursuing the soul-stretching opportunities” offered by a second crack at wedded bliss. And this in a world where it’s often claimed that unattached 45-year-old women are more likely to be hit by an asteroid than hit on (in a good way) by a man with his own hair, teeth and a pulse.
My New Year’s resolutions this year? Not making any. Not even one. Not that I’ve made one for about the last decade or so, anyway, as the usual suspects keep cropping up on the to-do list and depressing the hell out of me by the second week in January.
It’s not often I find myself listening with close interest to any sporting story these days but my attention was captured good and proper recently when two worlds collided. It fairly brought me up short when a radio reporter referred to someone hurling milk, water and sundry liquid comestibles in the general direction of Manchester United manager Jose Mourinho, in what I was charmed to hear described as a “food-related fracas”.
Words, words, words, I’m so sick of words, as Eliza Doolittle memorably sang in My Fair Lady. And if I am, I can imagine how you lot are feeling, having been subjected to my wordy rants for yet another year, as 2017 thankfully limps towards the finishing line.
Anne Robinson, never knowingly under-opinionated, has been telling this week of her “despair” at the young women of today who are too “fragile” to stand up for themselves.